Accismus

You know what I think a million dollar idea would be?  If you were to invent some sort of thing you could feed to, say, a dog somewhere, that would make the dog entirely loose its voice forever, but otherwise wouldn’t harm the dog.  Every dog in New York would be given this treat eventually, including the one next door to me now, at my new apartment – the big black one with the white muzzle, who barks every morning from 7:00-8:00am in such a way as to completely penetrate even the most shoved-in of earplugs.

Since nothing like that exists, though, I will probably have to feed this dog poison at some point.  Or, someone – not me – will, I mean.

Extremely obese black dude with a small mop of dreadlocks:  ‘Naw, man, but he’s not real!  He’s just a cardboard cutout!’

Dweeby-looking white guy:  ‘Yeeeeah, I know.  He’s uh…what’s it called?  Photoshopped.’

Black guy:  ‘Exactly!  Ain’t nobody really look like that.’

My friends and I went to the Red Hook Ikea yesterday.  Going on a weekday is definitely the way to do it – the place was pretty much empty.  Except…there were all these preteen kids running around everywhere eating $1 yogurt and carping at each other.  Later, while eating our meatballs and lingonberry sauce, my friends and I saw all of the kids piling into a schoolbus in the parking lot.

Why would a junior high school take a mid-day field trip to Ikea?  Just because the food’s cheap and there’s plenty of floor space?

At the waiting room of Quest Diagnostics testing center, Greenpoint, Brooklyn, an incredibly frazzled-looking blond Polish woman in green scrubs came out to check the sign-in list (no employee had entered the waiting room for 15 full minutes). A very young woman went up to her.

‘I just scratched my name out,’ said the young woman. ‘I will come back another day.’

‘Ok,’ said the worker, studying the clipboard.

‘See?’ said the young woman. ‘Right there. I scratched it out. Because I have to pick up my kid – at 10:30, the schools let out.’

‘Ok,’ said the worker.

‘So,’ said the young woman. ‘I suppose I will come back tomorrow. Because how many are waiting?’

The worker made a vague motion over her shoulder at the waiting room, where sat a very old man with a cane, a Mom-ish looking woman reading a Polish magazine, me, and a mentally-challenged man (who had clearly shit himself) playing with a pop-bead toy and accompanied by an older lady with garish rouge circles painted on her cheeks.

‘So…four?’ asked the young woman.

‘Yeah, four, yeah,’ said the worker. The very old man approached.

‘When will you call me?’ he asked.

‘Well, I will have to come back tomorrow, then,’ said the young woman. ‘What are your hours?’

‘Who are you?’ said the worker.

‘Douglas,’ said the old man, pointing. ‘When will you call?’

‘Now,’ said the worker. ‘Room one.’

‘Room what? Where?’

‘Your hours tomorrow?’

‘Uh…eight to five. Room one, room one. Right there, sir. Elizabeth?’

I went up with my form.

‘Okay,’ said the young woman, regretfully. ‘I guess I will just come back tomorrow then.’

‘I can’t do this test,’ said the worker, looking at my form. ‘For a job, yes? I can’t do. Will speak to my friend to do. Please take a seat.’

I sat down again. The young woman left in a huff, and the worker guided the old man to Room One.

Presently, another harried Polish woman came out, this one in white scrubs. She looked at the clipboard and called to the back:

‘Which one had the form?’

‘What?’ called the first worker from another room.

‘The form? Which is the one with the form?’

Everyone in the waiting room stood up halfway.

‘Me!’ I said, coming up with my form.

She took it, and scrutinized me.

‘Are you ready to urinate now?’ she asked, loudly.

‘I sure am!’ I announced.

As I was picking up my laundry, an older Polish man came in and put a five dollar bill on the counter next to me. The Asian woman ringing up my laundry looked at it.

‘Five dollar quarters?’ she said.

‘Uh, four and four quarters,’ said the man.

‘No–’

‘For the meter! The meter!’

‘No! We are not a bank!’

A long, uncomfortable staredown ensued.

‘Forget it,’ said the woman.

Another long, uncomfortable staredown, during which I paid for my laundry.

‘You go down there!’ said the woman, pointing vaguely East. ‘To the Western Union!’

‘Oh, okay!’ said the old dude, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Thank you! Have a nice evening!’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Excuse me,’ he said grandly, bowing himself out the door. ‘Good evening!’

As I went down the stairs into the train tunnel, an old French guy coming up muttered something critical at me, which unfortunately, I didn’t catch. After passing me, he hollered at a model-gorgeous girl in a sleek black outfit, who was smoking at the top of the steps:

‘Get rid of that cigarette! That is ugly! Ugly!‘

Later, outside a bar in Astoria:

Woman:  ‘Well, then, uh, I don’t know, let me get your number?’

Guy:  ‘My phone number?!’

Two very overweight white guys on the train, one blond with gold hoop earrings and a weird face, the other dark with a full beard:

Dark: I mean, I’m not saying — you don’t need, like, sixteen channels, but you need more than four!

Blond: Yeah, I don’t kn–

Dark: –I mean, you have four channels, and then you have four people singing – you have no more channels!

Blond: Yeah, but–

Dark: –I mean, look, I’m just trying to figure out what kind of amp you need to get this shit done.

Blond: I guess I–

Dark: I mean, it’s not gonna be, because then, you just need a mixer–

Blond: Yeah, but I feel like I can buy a mixer. Mixers aren’t that expensive.

Dark: They’re not too bad.

Blond: So then–

Dark: –I mean, I have a mixer I can lend you.

Blond: I’m just concerned about the wires. Because when we, whatever space we have, the wires have to come to, like a single, elegant point. We can’t have wires–

[Train noise.]

Blond: the wires, and I just–

Dark: –I’m telling you, man, I think we’re basically on the same page about the wires! I understand about the wires, but it’s a non-issue!

Blond: It just, it has to be a non-issue, because I can’t have, like–

Dark: –It will be a non-issue!

Blond: It has to be.

Dark: IT IS!

Prim-looking blond girl on cell phone, dubiously:  ‘Well, that’s rather unusual:  a consensual affair!’

Small blond girl: ‘Say the movie. The move it one.’

Woman, holding empty stroller and girl’s hand: ‘Oh. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it.’

Girl: ‘I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. Say it one more time.’

Woman, dutifully: ‘I like to move it, move it.’

Girl: ‘I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I yike to move it, move it. I yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, yike to move it, move it, [ad infinitum]. . . ‘

Short, cute young woman with long ringlets, suede ankle boots and a giant garish Coach bag on the G platform, speaking to silent, skinny young guy with goatee, new and stiff red Yankees cap (bill to the front) and big, cartoonish high top sneakers, who made eye contact and nodded gravely as much as he could, his eyes occasionally drifting off over her shoulder:

‘And she was like “you have my phone” and I was like “yes, you left your phone here” and she like “you have my phone, you have my phone” and I was like “yes ma’am, you left it” but she was all yelling at me, like “where are you, where are you” like I had stolen it or something, and I’m like “no, you don’t understand, I work in a store” and she just kept going “where are you” and I couldn’t even understand her, I was like are you speaking English, even? And she was like, “where are you?” and I was like, “ma’am, I work in a store, you left your phone here in the store” and then she’s like “oh, ok, so where are you at” and I was like “this is PS” and she was like “oh, where?” and I was like “ps” and she was like, “wait, what? I’m at the shopping center, at the Children’s Place” and I was like “ok, well, we’re right across from there” and she was like “you’re at Children’s Place?” And I was like, “no! no, I’m not at Children’s Place, I’m at PS,” and she was like “where are you? Children’s Place?” And this went on forever! And I’m like, woman? And she’s all “you’re at Children’s Place, you’re at Children’s Place,” and I’m like “PS, PS!”"

At which point, the train arrived and everyone boarded.

” . . . and she was like, “I’m her daughter. Where are you?” and I was like, “I’m at PS, right across the street from Children’s Place,” and she was like, “ok, we’ll be right over,” and I was like “I’m right here.”‘

The guy nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay, um, today?’ he began. ‘I had to move this stock, right? From the back, where we have the shelves, and . . . ‘

Ran over the Williamsburg Bridge and back today.  Saw seven (7) ironic mustaches, two (2) non-ironic pairs of legwarmers and one (1) Scottie dog.

A gang of teenage boys stood in a clump around the subway stairs. As I forced a path through them, one of them said, ‘Look out, Miss!’ and I stopped short instinctively. ‘Watch out for that dried water there!’ he said, pointing at a wet patch of sidewalk, and they all giggled.

At the 5th Ave. station, a woman handed out fliers at the top of the escalator. ‘Breakfast sandwich, only $3.99. Breakfast sandwich, only– Excuse me, Miss! Are you gonna pick that up!?!’ Every woman under 40 (including me) stopped short and wheeled around to see what they had dropped, and the entire throng of commuters staggered back a step.

Today, I had to rise at the ungodly hour of 7:30am, and commute with swarms of anachronistic non-freelancers during rush hour.  And I remembered something:  NYC is hell.  I had forgotten it, so rarely do I have to fight my way into or out of a business district during prime commuting time.

Yesterday, as I waited for the train, a young boy ran in circles around me and the pillar I was leaning on.  He was using a pencil as a pretend gun (and holding it ridiculously, I might add), and making explosion noises, and trotting up and down the narrow strip of platform between my knees and the tracks.  One nudge, and that would have been it for him.  It’s amazing children ever reach adulthood.

Last night, there were nearly two dozen cop cars zooming around Greenpoint where McGuinness passes under the BQE.  Every pedestrian out was trying to figure out what was up.  I passed a nest of stopped cop cars, but didn’t want to rubberneck too long.  When I got to class, a guy said he’d been on his way when he saw a guy run by, and then a fleet of cops with their guns drawn charged toward him, screaming at him to get out of the way.  I wonder what the fleeing man had done.

A guy with a body like a spaghetti noodle and Warhol hair trotted alongside a lovely, stylish, and utterly fed up-looking Asian woman in boots and tights. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ he whined. ‘It’s just that you always threaten me, so I caaaan’t trust you!’

On the train, a very young guy with acne scars and unfocused eyes danced wildly holding the hands of a baby in a carriage propped between his knees. He giggled and tossed his head back and forth, and pushed his face down close to the baby. The baby had the exact look you have when dealing with a temporarily amusing drunk person who you fear could blow any minute.

A bald man sat on a subway bench, and a very short woman stood in front of him, rubbing her hands in circles on both sides of his head, and cooing.

Today in the laundry mat, I opened a washer, only to find it full of clothes. Thinking it was finished laundry, I pushed the door to and started loading up another machine. A pretty young blond Polish lady came over, shut the door I had opened firmly, turned around and shot me an extended glare as if I had just straight up pissed in her cereal. She then put her laundry detergent back behind the counter, and barked at the Korean teenage girl on staff, ‘This here mine. Don’t let nobody take.’

‘Yours?’ repeated the girl, confused.

‘Yes. This. Mine. Don’t let nobody take,’ the woman repeated, and left.

After that, I went to the grocery store, and I was rounding the end of the dairy aisle, I heard some major carrying on behind a swinging door. A woman in a white butcher’s apron was prancing back and forth, texting, and jubilantly singing something mocking in Spanish, and totally cracking herself up. She was totally cracking up another butcher, as well, who had his back to her and was using a cleaver to hack at hunks of red meat strewn all over a table.

‘Spanish spanish spanish spaaaaanish,’ sang the woman. ‘Ha, ha, ha, HA!’

‘Woo, ai, ai,’ agreed the man, swinging his cleaver.

‘Spaaaaanish, spaanish, duh-duh-dum, Spanish, heee hee hee heee,’ sang the woman.

‘Mwah, huh, huh, huh, HUH!’ shouted the man, hacking away.

I really wanted to work there, suddenly.

One of the many annoyances of living in NYC is that a production shoot will frequently interrupt your daily routine. Today was a freezing cold, windy and rainy day, but for some reason, everybody was shooting in Greenpoint. Some project had trailers parked all up and down Driggs Ave., but I didn’t see anyone out in the weather, other than a few workers taping down wires. Then, there was a commercial shooting at the track. A little tent had been erected next to the track, and about ten people and all their equipment huddled under it. A guy dressed like a referee stood out on the track opposite four muscular dudes in summer running gear, who posed squatted down as if about to race. They must have been freezing. An aide with a showy sense of urgency stopped me and requested I run around behind the tent, so as not to mess up their shot, so I had to squelch through the mud, dodging trees and benches, every time I did a lap.

Exiting the food court adjacent to the Lex & 53rd subway station, an Indian guy in some sort of food industry uniform chased two Hispanic guys who both wore a different restaurant’s uniform. ‘Mexico, Mexico, everybody from Mexico!’ the Indian guy was saying, while the two other guys rolled their eyes at each other, and clearly tried to out-walk him. ‘I love tacos! But I am just not [unintelligible]. Seriously, Mexico is a beautiful country, a gorgeous country.’

On Park Avenue, a car failed to go promptly at a green light, causing several cars to lay on their horns for a good long while, which in turn interrupted the phone conversation of a thin blond woman whose tweed pencil skirt met her black leather boots in a perfect horizontal line across her kneecaps. ‘It’s just so loud here,’ she screamed into the phone. ‘It is just too loud, I mean. This whole city, I don’t – this city is so…loud, and I really, I feel sorry for people who have to…’

Blowsy tourist lady on Madison Ave. screaming into her cell phone:

‘So, then where are you, where do you wanna meet? Oh, and Amelia said something about, uh, Ranger, so I told her Ranger got sick and died.’

A very thin young Hassid arrived at the exercise area next to the running track, and shed his black coat and cap. In his vest, shirtsleeves, slacks and tendrils, he spent some time in a standing position, swinging his thin legs in nearly complete circles, dancers’ arcs, with much enthusiasm. People on nearby benches stared.

On my next revolution, he was bent over backwards walking his hands down the spindly trunk of a tiny yellow-flowered tree, attempting to get into a full backbend (I guess). He got about halfway.

On my next revolution, he was hanging by his knees from the overhead bars, with his tendrils hanging straight down, and also his thin thighs and arms, and also the four long strings of his special penile guard (which was also hanging upside down, abandoning its post). He appeared to be a collection of strands and ribbons, and his limbs were like ribbons he was pitching in all directions.

On my next revolution, he was sitting in half-lotus on the grass, holding a cigarette in a fancy way – with his hand extended palm up.